


WINNER TAKES ALL

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-06
Updated: 2008-05-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8703361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Jensen and Jared break up and Jensen finds new love with Wentworth Miller. That's when things start to get complicated...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

You’re happy for Jensen—at least, you are trying to be. After all, its not like it worked between the two of you anyway—you were too different, wanted such different things….if Jensen could find happiness with someone else, you want to be a big enough man to say, “Good for you!”

 

Even if that ‘someone else’ is Wentworth Fucking Miller.

 

The same Wentworth Fucking Miller who told you, with a perfectly straight face, that he had no interest in your boyfriend…when Jensen still was your boyfriend—and that he was happy with Luke- only to pounce on Jensen as soon as the two of you broke up, leaving Luke as stunned as you.

 

And wow….for someone who spent years—YEARS—denying he was gay, when Wentworth Came Out, he REALLY Came Out! 

 

It was hard enough getting over Jen, trying to maintain a decent working relationship and salvage some kind of friendship from the wreckage of your ill-advised love affair with him, without having to see photos of the two lovebirds absolutely EVERYWHERE-- with Miller’s tongue so far down his throat that you thought they couldn’t possibly breathe.

 

Jensen felt badly about it all—he knew how much you detested Miller. You had always thought of him as a prissy little snot who thought he was better than everyone else because he went to Princeton and came from a progressive, interracial background, and Jen was nothing like that, so you couldn’t imagine what they had in common…except, of course, being gorgeous and famous and smart and funny and snarky…okay, so maybe they were perfect for each other, but that didn’t mean that you had to like it! 

 

Yeah, you knew Jensen was a wildcat in bed, and you suspected—from the size of the nickies and the amount of bruises on Jen that the makeup girls spent hours covering up—that the two of them must be amazing together sexually, even if the thought did make you feel rather…ill.

 

It was towards the end of the fourth and final season of “Supernatural”, when Jensen and Wentworth had been together for about six months that the two of you finally talked about it.

 

The makeup girls had just left the trailer, giggling and whispering as they exited about Jensen’s latest rounds of lovebites. You heard one of them say something like, “God, that Wentworth sure likes to…ummm…mark his territory!”

 

The two girls exploded in fits of giggles and the door slammed, leaving the two of you alone together, waiting to be called to set. You rolled your eyes at the comment, and Jensen stared at you in the mirror, giving you a sheepish look.

 

The silence was awful.

 

“I’m sorry…” Jen whispered quietly.

 

You looked up quickly, nearly spilling your coffee all over yourself in your surprise. The two of you didn’t talk about it—not your break-up, not your feelings concerning it, and certainly not Wentworth Fucking Miller—that was just the rules.

 

Now Jensen was breaking the rules.

 

“I’m sorry you have to….I didn’t ever mean to….I’ll tell him to stop leaving so many marks…”

 

You gave Jensen an incredulous look, “Whatever, man….you don’t have to apologise to me—none of my business. Sounds like the people you should be saying’ sorry to are the makeup girls….”

 

Jensen just stares at you, looking right through your lame attempt at a joke, and seeing your pain underneath. He swallows thickly before speaking again, “Jared, I didn’t mean for this to happen. For me to…find someone else so quickly, after you and me….it just kinda…happened. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

You snort out a laugh that belies your denials, then you look away because there are tears forming in your eyes and you’ll be damned if you are going to let Jensen see how this is hurting you—that he found someone else, that he loves someone else.

 

“Look, if you’re happy, then I’m happy.” You finally say and get up to leave.

 

Jensen doesn’t say a word.

 

***

You really want to punch Jensen in the face when you hear about the sex tape and how it’s leaked on to the Internet. How could he be so stupid? And “Mr. Princeton”? How could HE be so fucking dumb?

 

You really have to wonder if it isn’t all staged—all part of some grand publicity campaign. It certainly doesn’t hurt Prison Break’s ratings—or Supernatural’s, for that matter, and Jensen is suddenly the hottest property in Hollywood, offerings coming from every studio for every type of film.

 

After three days of warring with yourself, you give in and watch the film clip, like everyone else on the planet, and yeah…it’s hot. It’s…amazing, actually. You didn’t even realise that two men could actually do it in some of those positions…

 

 

But the hotness of the whole thing is tempered considerably by the shock of the video’s ending…something you had heard rumours about, sure—but you still weren’t quite expecting.

 

After the sex, when both men are laying together, spooned, Miller cuddles up against Jen’s back, kissing your ex’s shoulder lovingly, softly, he murmurs, “I love you…love you, Jen…please…please tell me you love me too?”

 

You brace yourself for Jensen to say, “I love you too.”—but instead, there is an awkward silence of several seconds, and then Jen is looking over his shoulder at Went, and the look on his face is somehow….sad. You can see it even through the grainy nature of the video quality.

 

“I can’t,” he whispers, and his voice cracks with emotion as he adds, “Stop, Went…come on…you know I can’t.”

 

Wentworth looks absolutely crestfallen at his words, but says nothing, just nods slowly and kisses Jensen’s shoulder again….and the tape ends.

 

You stare at your computer screen for a long time without moving, trying to process what you have just witnessed.

 

What the fuck!

 

A few days later, you see Jen and simply cannot contain yourself, “Why didn’t you tell Went you loved him—at the end of the tape?” you blurt out without thinking.

 

Jensen’s eyes go as wide as saucers, “You WATCHED that?”

 

Jensen just looks at you like a kicked puppy, and you feel guilty, “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have…watched it…”

 

“Why should you be any different from the rest of the planet?” Jensen recovers somewhat, smirks, trying to lighten the mood, “You know people actually think we did it on purpose? That there was no theft—that we planted the video on the ‘net ourselves—to generate publicity! I mean, can you believe that? Why would I ever want something as intimate as that to be seen by…anyone else? And the conversation? Jesus! Do you know what its doing to Went to know that the whole world knows he loves me and I told him—in front of the whole fuckin’ universe—that I didn’t feel the same way?”

 

“That’s what I don’t get,” you interrupt suddenly, “You sure as hell act like you’re in love—why? Why didn’t you say it to him?”

 

You think its odd when Jensen doesn’t reply, just stares at you as if you are the stupidest person on Earth-- but you decide to let it go. You have learned to let a lot of things go lately.

 

***

After the show ends, you don’t see Jensen for three months. You talk on the phone a few times, but that’s it.

 

Then you are forced to go to a CW event for the release of your final season on DVD and you see them both there, together, for the first time. Wentworth and Jensen live and in person—it makes you want to puke.

 

 

For the hottestthingontheplanetohmyGod!, Wentworth is decidedly….subdued. He smiles a hollow smile as you all pose together for the photographers.

 

Bill Fichtner’s there and it’s the first time Wentworth’s seen him since he left “Prison Break” for his own spin-off series “Mahone: FBI”. The two men smile broadly and embrace.

 

“I still haven’t forgiven you for leaving,” Went pretends to pout, “The show’s no fun without you anymore.”

 

“Ah, don’t worry, Went…I have the distinct feeling that you’ll ALL be leaving that show…soon.”

 

Wentworth smirks at him, “Yeah, we’re going to get the axe,” he admits softly, “Its your fault. Its all because you left!”

 

Bill slaps him on the back and smiles, “Call me Monday, Went. We’ll have dinner at my place. My wife can’t cook, but that’s okay. We can have a few beers.”

 

He walks away and Went looks after him, looking almost forlorn, “He’s such a nice guy. He was…so good to me when we worked together.”

 

Jensen’s told you that Went finds it hard to make friends. He’s brilliant as well as gorgeous and snarky as well as charming, others often find him…intimidating—yourself included. Apparently, Bill Fichtner had been an exception, because Jensen told you how much Wentworth adored him, and how kind the older man was to him, like a father figure, understanding that Wentworth’s big ole brain was no reason NOT to be friends with him. (Then Jen had given you that reproving look of his).

 

You all shake hands, smile a last time for the photographers, and go inside. 

 

Two hours later, you are drunk at the bar and catch a glimpse of Wentworth and Jen heading to the men’s room together. You shake your head in disbelief—are they really going to have at it in a toilet?

 

You decide to barge in and break up their little party before it starts.

 

You enter and stop when you notice that they are both too far gone to even notice you are there, much less care.

 

They look beautiful together, all taut muscle and long limbs, under expensive tuxedos. Went’s long fingers caressing his lover as they embrace deeply against the far wall.

 

The intimate moment is broken, however, by their conversation….

 

You feel guilty, but that doesn’t stop you from listening in.

 

Wentworth wraps his arms around Jensen’s neck possessively, kisses him deeply, rests his forehead against Jen’s and sighs heavily, “Love you,” he whimpers, “God…want you so much…all the time…tell me you love me too…”

 

You see Jensen’s entire body tense at the words and he actually takes a step back—as if trying to pull away, but Wentworth seems to have anticipated the reaction, and only tightens his grip, holding his lover to him, “Don’t…” he says softly, “Don’t pull away from me…you always pull away from me.”

 

He sounds sad—no, worse than that. He sounds….forlorn. 

 

Jensen is clearly frustrated, “Don’t start this now, Went…”

 

“Why can’t you just love me, Jen? I could give you so much…if you’d let me.” That smooth voice sounds so desperate.

 

Jensen does pull away now, runs a hand through his hair in anger, paces back and forth, “Don’t do this!” he gasps, “You always act like this when… he’s around! You know I hate it when you’re….”

 

“What?” Wentworth presses, sounding defeated.

 

“Clingy! Needy!” Jensen explodes now, “God! Its such a fucking turn- off!”

 

“I’m sorry,” Went replies, barely audible, “I guess I still get jealous.”

 

“Of what?” Jensen thunders, “We broke up! I’m with you!”

 

“But you’re not,” Went says sadly, defeated, “You’re not with me, not really.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Went!” Jensen booms.

 

Realising how loud he’s being, Jensen pulls himself back in, and sighs.

 

Your mind wonders at this point and you don’t really notice what they are saying to one another. You are too busy wondering what the hell you have just witnessed.

 

When you come back to yourself, they are making out like a couple of teenagers. Whatever the problems between them, they seem to have worked it out….you walk away before they see you standing there.

 

 

***

Three days later, Jensen calls you out of the blue and invites you over to watch the Cowboys game, “Went hates football…” he laments.

 

You think it is odd, to say the very least, but you agree—after all, you ARE trying to be mature about…all of this.

 

You sit together watching the game, as well as one another, “So, how is life with Miller? You guys seem happy…” you offer lamely.

 

Jensen looks uncomfortable, and shakes his head, “Its…fine. I mean, it’s not perfect, but nothing ever is, right?”

 

You are surprised by his comments.

 

“I thought…” you begin but Jensen cuts you off suddenly.

 

“Do you ever think about us?” he asks suddenly, “Do you ever think about…me?”

 

You don’t understand but you are not sure that you really want to. You just stare at Jensen across the small distance between you, and then you find yourself leaning forward and taking his lips with your own, kissing him deeply, if hesitantly.

 

Jensen, for his part, responds enthusiastically, opening his mouth to your inquisitive tongue, and….God! It’s just as good as it was years ago….

 

You make love like you have never been apart, and its amazingly good. You have never been the type of guy who sleeps with attached people, but with Jensen, you are more than willing to make an exception. Hasn’t he always been your exception to every rule?

 

Still, you can’t escape the feelings of guilt that crashes in upon you after the passion subsides. 

 

You lay naked, side-by-side, thighs brushing against one another almost casually.

 

“Don’t you feel….guilty?” you ask suddenly, “He loves you. You shouldn’t be doing this.”

 

Jensen looks up at you, deeply thoughtful, “Yes, I do…” he admits, “He does love me…I care about him too, it’s just….”

 

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” You say, pulling away.

 

Jensen grabs your arm as you turn to leave, stopping you.

 

“Since when are you the president of his fan club?” Jensen asks, smirking at you.

 

You shake your head, “I’m not, just….its not right.”

 

“I know.” Jensen agrees and then he kisses you and it takes your breath away.

 

You fuck two more times before you leave.

 

 

***

Jensen and Wentworth’s home in the Hollywood Hills is gorgeous. It is the perfect mix of the two men—eclectic (Went) and down home southern (Jen).

 

You fuck Jensen, every couple of weeks or so, in the four poster bed he shares with Wentworth—the one that Went hates, but allowed Jensen to buy anyway, because it reminded him of his parents bed back in Richardson when he was a kid.

 

After one such intense sex session, when you are both panting and sweaty, Jen casually mentions, “We’re getting married.”

 

You feel like the bottom has just fallen out beneath you.

 

 

***

You politely decline the wedding invitation when it arrives, looking so very tasteful, with black engraving on ivory paper. You know they only invited you hoping you would decline—because Jensen felt like he had too, and Wentworth was willing to indulge him.

 

The week after the wedding at the Château Marmot is a living hell. You want to crawl under your covers and avoid the world for the rest of your natural life.

 

The press is relentless. Well, they always have been where Went and Jen are concerned, but the wedding and subsequent honeymoon in the Maldives just pushes the press into overdrive—it’s a feeding frenzy, complete with grainy, long-lenes captured photos of the two newly weds on the beach in their respective Speedos and board shorts, cuddling, sunbaking, and—of course—kissing…and hey, you are all about gay rights and all that…but come on! You don’t know why the gossip magazines feel the need to plaster the two of them on every single cover of every single magazine with cutesy captions like, “The new Bogey and Bacall”, and “Get a Room!”

 

You don’t see Jensen for a few months, and then he just shows up at your place on a Thursday evening, Chinese take out in hand, casually explaining that Went is out of town filming.

 

You fuck all night until both of you are covered in sweat and it feels so much like regret, it makes your skin crawl. You don’t want to be this—the other man. And as much as you have always detested Miller, he doesn’t deserve this. 

 

You begin to avoid Jensen’s calls. But when you try to do that, Jensen just turns up at your place with that smile on his face—and you end up in bed anyway.

 

 

***

Then you start to hear things about Wentworth….that he’s not himself, that he’s been sick, that he doesn’t look good. There are rumours of drugs and other problems, but you don’t believe them because Wentworth might be a prissy little snob, but he’s not stupid enough to do drugs.

 

You try to ask Jensen about it when you see him—when you fuck him stupid in some hotel suite or at his home or at your place—but Jensen evades your questions, avoids the subject of Wentworth all together.

 

“Is everything…all right?” you ask one day, after lovemaking by Jensen’s pool.

 

The sun is so warm on your naked skin as you lay together on a lounge, Jensen busy kissing your chest and licking your nipples.

 

He freezes for a nano-second when you ask, but then continues his ministrations, “What do you mean?”

 

“I’ve heard things…about Went.” You begin.

 

Jensen shakes his head slightly, continues to move down your torso with his mouth, “Its all bullshit…” he says.

 

Then he takes you in his mouth and blows you, and all thoughts in your mind cease except how incredible it feels.

 

 

***

Sometimes you wonder what the hell you are doing. You have never been introspective, but what kind of future do you and Jensen really have? And why are you so intent on keeping on in a dead-end relationship with someone who belongs to someone else.

 

You wish that you could be man enough to walk away; to let Wentworth have him—but you can’t. You don’t understand Jensen at all—he loves you, but won’t be with you openly. He’ll be with Wentworth openly, but won’t love him—it’s a paradox that drives you mad.

 

 

 

***

The party for Jensen’s latest blockbuster is crowded and the press are everywhere. You notice their reaction—hear the shocked gasps that sweep through the paparazzi—as Wentworth Miller enters the party at Jensen’s side.

 

You take one look at Went, and know that its not drugs-- he’s ill. Its obvious that he is sick, not stoned. 

 

His face is startlingly pale; his eyes are dulled and glazed. His hand shakes as he holds a paper in his hand to autograph it, and his smile is forced. You glance from him to Jensen and feel your heart skip a beat—Jen looks absolutely devastated. His face is a mask of fake happiness and confidence—you know that look too well.

 

Jensen also looks exhausted, and his eyes are puffy and red—like he’s either been crying or up all night—probably both. The two lovers head straight for the bar and you get the distinct impression that the only reason is so that Miller can sit down, because neither of them drink. Jensen leans down, whispering in his ear, and you’d give your eyeteeth to know what he’s saying.

 

Wentworth looks weak and shaky and Jen stands between him and the photographers, as if shielding him from their prying eyes and cameras.

 

When Wentworth attempts to stand a while later, he stumbles and Jensen is lightening fast as he grabs his arm, preventing him from falling, and holds him up as the whole room stares in horror.

 

For a moment, Went’s face contorts into a grimace of agony, and then he recovers and manages a small smile at Jen, straightening and they kiss briefly, almost chastely, before resuming the charade that everything is all right.

 

Wentworth catches your gaze before you can look away and his smile is wane. 

 

You corner Jensen alone in the bathroom later, “We need to talk,”

 

“No.” Jensen replies, refusing to look up from washing his hands.

 

“What’s going on, Jen?” you ask in a pleading tone, “What the hell is wrong with him?”

 

You look at him and realise that he is crying silently, “I can’t…do this right now. I can’t….talk to you about it right now, please….”

 

You literally back out of the bathroom, leaving Jensen alone, ice forming in the pit of your stomach as dread builds up inside you. Jen stands over one of the sinks, head bowed and crying hard. Outside, at a table, Went is propped against a wall, and looks like he’s about to collapse. He’s alone and part of you wants to go to him, to ask him if he’s okay; if he needs anything….but he looks so tired and so weak, and really—you’re having an affair with his husband—its not really your place to ask him anything.

 

***

You wait for your phone to ring.

 

It takes three days, and it’s not Jensen who finally calls you, but Wentworth.

 

“Hello, Jared.” He says in that smooth voice, that sounds slightly hoarse to your ears, “I hope you don’t mind. Jensen gave me this number.”

 

You don’t know what to say so you just tell him that its fine.

 

Straightforward as always, he simply asks you to lunch. You accept with more than a little trepidation.

 

***

The lunch is a disaster and you wonder why he asked you out to such a public place when it would have been much better for him if he had you over for lunch at his home instead.

 

You feel badly for him. His hands are shaking so badly that he can’t eat, and the salad goes untouched. People are staring and you want to tell them to fuck off and get a life….Wentworth looks like hell. He’s so white he almost looks transparent, and his eyes are glazed. He’s lost a shitload of weight and his clothes seem to hang half-off his anorexic frame.

 

You ask what you need to ask, “What’s wrong with you, Wentworth? Are you…ill? You look sick. People say you’re on drugs, but…”

 

To his credit, he meets your eyes when he says, “I am ill, Jared—its not drugs. I’m dying, Jared. I have cancer and…its everywhere. There’s nothing that the doctors can do for me. I have a month--maybe less.”

 

He reaches into his pockets and pulls out three prescription bottles, struggling to open them. When he succeeds in opening one, the pills spill everywhere, going all over the wooden floor.

 

You reach down automatically, and pick them all up for him calmly and numbly feeling every eye in the place upon you.

 

“Thankyou,” he says quietly as you hand him back the bottle.

 

You nod but say nothing. You have no idea what to say. You’ve never been around someone who was dying before…well, there was this uncle when you were fifteen, but…that doesn’t count.

 

“I’m so sorry,” you say finally.

 

He smiles at you, and you feel like an ass. 

 

“Don’t be. Be sorry for Jensen—he’s taking it worse then me, I think,” he attempts his trademark smirk, and fails, “He takes care of me. He’s been…wonderful…but I know how upset he is.”

 

“Of course he is. He loves you,” you tell him, not knowing what else to say.

 

“He loves me in his own way, but that’s not why he’s so upset. He just feels guilty.” Wentworth says with trademark brutal honesty.

 

You figured that Wentworth always knew, on some level, about you and Jensen’s little clandestine meetings, and simply choose to ignore them-- but you are not at all prepared for the words that come out of his mouth next.

 

“He never stopped loving you,” Wentworth says almost casually, “He gets so…distant sometimes. We’ve made a joke of it. When he pulls away from me, I ask him if I need to get my trumpet out—to knock down the walls of Jared…”

 

“Wentworth, listen…” you begin, but he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

 

“When we got married, he promised me that he would try to love me, but…”

 

“But…you seem so happy…” you manage to say.

 

“We are happy—to a point. Its not the fairytale that the press makes it sound like, but I guess you already know that…” He gives you a knowing look before continuing and your cheeks flush with embarrassment and shame. Yeah, you know WAY too much about their problems….Went’s penchant for rough sex, which Jensen loathed, Went’s obsessive need for privacy, his disapproving family back east, his own disapproval of the kind of films Jensen chooses to make, calling them ‘trash for the masses’….other things too--Wentworth’s coldness for days, sometimes weeks, after sex, as if he regretted every sexual encounter they shared—and yet kept coming back for more…how Went had told Jensen many times, sometimes even when they were in bed, making love, that he wished he wasn’t gay, wasn’t attracted to men, that he wished he could be with women instead, and how much that hurt Jensen…Jensen has told you everything—and then some. 

 

You really wish that he hadn’t.

 

He looks away, tears in his eyes and now you feel like a real shit for everything because—damn!—he’s really nice. Why did you never see that before? Too angry? Too jealous? Probably both….

 

“I know he loves you—always has. I know about you and him—about what happens when I’m not around…I know he…sees you. I’ve always known.”

 

Your mouth goes incredibly dry as you try to deny everything, but it’s pointless, so you give up halfway through and just shrug, staring down at your food.

 

“I don’t blame you,” Wentworth adds after a long pause, “I don’t blame either of you. I just wish things had been…different.”

 

You know exactly how he feels and nod slowly, still not daring to look up at him.

 

“Why did you stay with him—if you knew about me?” you whisper after a long pause.

 

Went laughs humourlessly, “Because I love him. I accepted long ago that he would never feel the same way about me. I decided that I could live with that.”

 

You don’t understand that anymore than you understand Jensen’s refusal to leave Went, even when he was sleeping with you all the time and avoiding his husband’s phone calls.

 

“Its not fair to you,” you say indignant for him.

 

“Well, it won’t matter for much longer,” he smiles, “And I didn’t ask you here to talk about my illness, or your affair with my husband.”

 

You nod vaguely, “Why did you ask me here?”

 

“To talk about Jensen and what will happen after I’m…gone.”

 

You stare at him, “What do you want me to say? I mean, I’ll be there for Jen….I’ve always been there for him. He’s my friend.”

 

“Don’t hurt him.” Went’s eyes flash with something akin to anger and he holds your gaze, “Don’t leave him.”

 

You scoff at that, “He left me,” you correct, “I don’t know what he told you about our break up—but he left me!”

 

“Be that as it may, he won’t leave you again. That much, I am sure of. I know he regrets ever letting you go. So, if you can tell me that you won’t leave him….I can die in peace.”

 

You stare at him, stunned. Just…stunned.

 

Went begins to cough, and stops speaking. It’s a horrible, hacking sound. He sounds like he’s gagging and it makes you feel sick.

 

“You know,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially, “ I’m not afraid to die—not anymore. In the beginning, I was. I fought the cancer every way I could. But now….I’m just tired. I’m not afraid for me. If I can make sure Jen will be okay after I’m…gone, then I’ll truly be at peace with… all of this.”

 

You nod slowly. This is all so surreal. You have no idea what to say or do.

 

“I’m very tired. I need to go home and sleep,” Went says abruptly, breaking the silence.

 

“I’m so sorry,” you say again and you are apologising for so many things.

 

Went smiles softly, “Can you…help me to my car? I don’t think I can walk alone.”

 

You lead him to his chauffeured car; he is leaning heavily against your side, arms wrapped around your upper arm. You get him seated and he gives you one of his famously enigmatic smirks, “Thank you for seeing me, Jared.”

 

And he is gone.

 

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

You meet Jensen for lunch in town a few days later and are hardly surprised when he looks like hell.

 

“Jesus, Jen…why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, anguish filling in the gaps between your words.

 

Jensen just looks at you helplessly, “We didn’t want to say anything…to anybody…until we were sure there was…no hope. We kept…hoping for a miracle, I guess.”

 

“You still shoulda told me, Jen,” you reply, “I could’ve been there for you.”

 

Jensen manages a small smile, “You were.”

 

That hardly makes you feel any better—yeah, you were ‘there’—you were fucking Jensen in his marriage bed while Wentworth was ensconced in some hospital room, facing death.

 

“How could you do that to him?” you ask—and the words come out sounding far more accusatory then you had intended, “How could you…be with me…when he was sick? Didn’t you want to be with him at a time like that?”

 

Jensen just shakes his head, like he has no answers but says, “I was there…in the beginning, when he first found out. I tried to be there all the time, but Went just…shut down on me. He wanted to face it alone, didn’t even want me to go to the doctor appointments with him….after a while, I just kind of…accepted it. I guess it was easier that way—I didn’t have to face it. But I did try to be there for him, Jay. I’m not that cold, you know. But Went…he can be…so strange sometimes, so distant…he didn’t want me to be there for him.”

 

It’s odd to be sure, but very much in keeping with Miller’s personality and it fits with his nature, from everything Jensen’s ever told you. For as loving and devoted and Wentworth Miller seemed to be to Jensen, he was also aloof, distant, not quite committed to the relationship in the way he portrayed that he was to the public…it was the main reason Jensen fell back into your arms in the first place, because—as Jensen had articulated that very first night you spent in bed with him after he’d married Went—“The guy loves me, I know he does—but he’s so cold, Jay…it’s like he’s got ice in his veins. He just cuts me cold. We have sex and he’s up and out of the bed and in the shower before I’ve stopped panting, you know? Then he just buries his head in a book. He won’t talk to me, won’t hold me, not really….it sounds like some lame excuse, I know, a lame excuse to justify cheating…but its like, when we’re alone, he doesn’t want me to…get too close.”

 

You remember all of that now with crystal clarity and have to shake your head at then tragedy of it all—Wentworth, so in love with Jensen and yet holding him at arm’s length, while Jensen desperately wanted to be close to Wentworth, even as he did not love him. It was a sad, tragic paradox.

 

Then Jensen brings you back to yourself by saying something you never expected him to admit.

 

“Things were never right between us—Went and me. I tried—he tried. But it was never right—like a square peg trying to fit in a circle…I was never fair to him. Never should have gotten with him in the first place…”

 

No truer words….

 

“Why did you leave me, Jen?” you ask all at once.

 

You had never talked about it—just dumbly accepted it when Jensen rather casually announced one afternoon after filming that he didn’t think you should be sleeping together anymore--but now you needed to know. 

 

Jensen looks at you with such pain in his eyes that it takes your breath away as he replies slowly, “I don’t know. I ask myself that question every single fucking day—and I still have no answer. It was….the biggest mistake of my life, that’s for sure. I think….I think that maybe…I loved you too much. It scared me. When we were together, it was like…so intense….I lost myself in you. You were like this…huge presence…and I seemed to…disappear in you. It felt amazing…but it scared the shit out of me at the same time. I guess that probably doesn’t make any sense, but…”

 

You nod and cut him off, “No, it does make sense…I think I know what you’re saying…”

 

“I wish I hadn’t done it, if that’s any consolation…”

 

You smile sadly and manage a small nod, “Not really…” you admit acidly.

 

You feel angry and you don’t even know why. You don’t even know who you are angry with—Jensen for wanting the affair? Yourself for going along with it? Wentworth for allowing it to go on? Wentworth for getting sick and bringing all of your sins to the surface, placing them under a spotlight? Maybe all three of you…

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Jensen’s voice brings you back to the present moment, “He wants to…die at home. He hates hospitals and so…I’m going to get him at the hospital later today and take him home…but I’m scared. I’ve never…been with anyone when they died, Jar…I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can…be strong enough…”

 

You reach out and clasp his hands in yours, “You can do it. You’re stronger than you think. Always have been.”

 

Jensen doesn’t look like he believes you.

 

***

Two weeks later, you pull up in front of the Miller-Ackles mansion in the Hollywood Hills and take a deep breath before ringing the doorbell.

 

Jen called you last night and asked you to come by and see him. He hasn’t left the house in almost a week and he’s going crazy. He needs company as Wentworth sleeps more then he is awake now, and he needs support because the end is near.

 

You had readily agreed, but now—in the cold daylight—you are terrified to face all of this, to go through all of this. But it’s the least you can do, so you do it.

 

Jensen opens the door and your first thought is how terrible he looks—like he hasn’t slept since you saw him last.

 

“Hey,” you smile wanly and Jensen just nods his head, lets you in. He looks as if he could shatter apart at any moment. He looks so very fragile and vulnerable in a way that makes you want to cry, “How is he?”

 

Jensen’s eyes grow distant, as if he is trying to weigh his words carefully, “He’s….its been a bad day. He’s been sick most of the day…”

 

“Fucking paparazzi bastards!” he growls as he sees the photographers camped out just beyond the fence that surrounds the property. He slams the door a bit too hard.

 

You nod, understandingly, “Yeah. Fuckers. As I was driving by, I had to slow down since they were in the fuckin’ road—shoulda run ‘em over. One bastard shouts at me, ‘Get a photo of Went dead and we’ll give you a quarter of a mil….can you believe those bastards?”

 

Jensen just shakes his head sadly, as if he’s heard that before, “I don’t know why they can’t just leave us alone….”

 

There’s movement at the top of the stairs and you both turn in time to see Wentworth emerging from his bedroom and attempting to navigate the stairway.

 

Went looks like he’s about to fall over, and Jensen races up the flight of stairs, catches him just in time, “What are you doing out of bed?” he snaps, sounding angry.

 

Wentworth’s eyes narrow and he pulls out of Jensen’s grasp once he is certain he won’t fall, “I’ve been in bed for three days. I think I’ve earned a parole on the terrace.”

 

Jensen swallows noticeably and steps back, “Oh…yeah. Okay…of course…” he says awkwardly, “You should’ve called me. Are you nuts just getting out of bed all by yourself?”

 

Went smirks at him, “You know, I’m not a child, Jensen. Even if I do act like one from time to time.”

 

Jensen closes his eyes and you can just see the strain and the pain in his face, “I know that. I’m sorry. I just…worry. I don’t want you to fall or get hurt.”

 

Went gives your lover a soft look as they descend the stairs together,” My protector to the end.”

 

Jensen looks sick at the remark.

 

“Hello, Jared,” Went manages a small smile and meets your horrified gaze.

 

He looks much worse than he looked even a couple of weeks before in the restaurant. He’s pale and gaunt and looks frail in a way that he didn’t appear before. 

 

“Hi Went,” you manage—and then (because you’re a stupid fuck) you add stupidly, “How ya doin’?”

 

Wentworth laughs mirthlessly, “Oh, you know…I’m dying. How are you today?”

 

You are mortified at your own stupidity—and at his candid remark. You stand, rooted to the floor and unable to move, as Jensen half carries-half-drags Miler to the terrace and gets him seated in a chair.

 

You can’t really hear what they are saying to one another, but Jensen looks upset.

 

“Don’t do this…” you hear Jensen beg sadly. 

 

Wentworth whispers something that you cannot hear. Jensen takes Wentworth’s hand in his own and kisses it gently. Wentworth looks like he’s crying and you hear him say, “I’m sorry to be…such a burden…”

 

Jensen is crying too as he replies firmly, “Don’t you say that! You’re not! You’re not a burden—you could never be a burden to me.”

 

“I wish I could stop causing you pain,”

 

“Stop…” Jensen whimpers painfully, “I’m fine. I’m okay. I know you’d do the same for me….”

 

Wentworth says something you cannot hear—don’t want to hear, and there is a long silence. The he speaks some more.

 

Then after a moment, Jensen says, “I DO love you!” a bit too loudly.

 

You just want to leave—just get out of there. You wish the ground would swallow you whole. You feel like a complete asshole just being here, and being privy to all of this. It’s so private, so personal—and Wentworth has always been such a private person, you can’t imagine that he would want you to see this, hear these things…you walk away, into the kitchen, just to give them some privacy.

 

When Jen finds you hiding in the kitchen, he just smiles sadly and sits in one of the kitchen chairs.

 

“You don’t have to keep me company, Jen,” you offer lamely, “Go and be with your husband.”

 

Jensen shakes his head, then rubs his face in exhaustion and pain, “He wants to be alone. He told me to come inside. He’s…like that. He likes his ‘alone time’.”

 

You sigh and sit across from your lover, “I have no fucking idea what to say to him…” you admit, “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” Jensen waves your concerns away with his hand, “Nobody does. Nobody knows what to say, or how to…handle it. Not even me. Most of all, not me…”

 

Jensen cries then, and it is not a small or hidden cry—it is the loud mournful sobs of someone who is losing someone they care about, and it is the cry of a man filled with anguish and regret and a ton of guilt, and someone who doesn’t know what to do with his self hatred any longer. He just cries and cries and you sit there across from him, in the brightly painted kitchen, and let him cry.

 

You have never felt more helpless.

 

 

In the early evening, Jensen helps Wentworth shower and then helps him into bed.

 

You want to give them space, alone time. You wait for Jensen in the living room.

 

A while later, Jensen appears, “He wants to talk to you.”

 

You raise your eyebrows and Jensen just shakes his head, “I don’t know why.”

 

***

Wentworth looks like he’s already half asleep by the time you walk up the stairs into his room and sit beside the bed. You don’t know what to say, so you just sit there and wait for him to talk.

 

“Its okay,” he says softly, and it makes you jump, “I know I look…terrible. The sexiest man alive, huh?” he smirks slightly, “Barely alive…”

 

“Don’t say that!” you admonish, not knowing what to say to such stark honesty.

 

He’s right—he does look terrible. His face looks shrunken and old; his eyes are larger then ever, but dull with drugs and pain. His hair is completely gone and his skin is grey.

 

“I didn’t want to do the chemo. Didn’t want to put Jen through it. But my mother, she was…so upset and she begged me to at least give it a try, you know? I knew it wouldn’t work, but….Jensen’s so…devastated, watching me like this…”

 

“You need to stop worrying about Jen and start worrying about yourself!” you cut him off, sounding more like Sam Winchester then Jared Padalecki, “Your health…you need to conserve your strength…”

 

Went gives you one of those placating smiles of his that used to really piss you off, “You think I’ll make some miraculous recovery, Jay? I don’t think so….promise me that you’ll help him when I’m gone.”

 

“Why do you want to give him to me so badly—without even a fight-- or a fuck you? Why are you being like this?” You ask, tormented.

 

Wentworth attempts to shrug but it is too much of an effort for him and he fails, his voice is soft and raspy now, “Just…please promise me.”

 

You feel like you are going to scream if you have to listen to his understanding, loving, forgiving shit any longer. This is not the Wentworth Miller you thought you knew.

 

“I promise.” You grind out between gritted teeth, and Went nods. Then he is sleeping.

 

***

You find Jensen in the living room and sit beside him on the leather lounge you sent them as a wedding gift. You have fucked him on this leather lounge—hell, you’ve fucked him in the bed Wentworth is currently wasting away in…at the time, you felt little or no guilt—now the guilt consumes you.

 

Jen looks like the weight of the world is upon his shoulders and its all you can do to not take him in your arms. He stares into space, clearly lost in his own world.

 

“How are you, Jen?” you ask at last when the silence becomes deafening.

 

He eyes you sadly, “I’ve been better,” he quips, tears threatening in his green eyes.

 

You nod silently. You don’t know what to say. You never do anymore.

 

“He’s…so sick. I try to take care of him, but he’s…proud, you know? Too proud for his own good. He won’t let me…help him. I feel useless.”

 

“You have to let him…do this on his own terms, Jen,” you say, trying to sound sure of your advice, even though you have no idea what you are talking about, “This is his…battle.”

 

Jensen laughs humourlessly, “This isn’t a battle—not anymore. The battle’s over. We’re just…waiting for the final surrender.”

 

“Well, then you have to let him surrender on his terms.” You conclude, “Where is his family?”

 

“They come and go. His sister and mother will be here again tomorrow.” Jensen replies listlessly.

 

All of a sudden, Jensen reaches for you and you draw back, horrified, “He’s upstairs!” you blurt out angrily.

 

Jensen gives you a smirk, “Its not like he doesn’t know about us, Jay…you know that. He’s known for a long time.”

 

“That doesn’t make it right!” you hiss, pacing the room, “He loves you! And he’s fucking dying—don’t you have any respect for him—for yourself?”

 

The anger you had been feeling towards Wentworth—for being so forgiving and so fucking OKAY with the fact that you were his husband’s lover—spills out now all over Jensen.

 

Jensen’s eyes flash then with something a kin to anger, “So…it was okay to have an affair with me while he was healthy, but now that he’s sick, you don’t think its okay anymore? God…hypocrite much?”

 

You run your hands through your too long bangs and try to reply with something not snarly and not cruel—it is very hard:

 

“I just…don’t think we should even be…thinking about that right now. He needs you. Sex isn’t high on the agenda right now, okay?”

 

“Fuck, Jay! I didn’t want sex, okay? I wouldn’t….I just wanted to be held by you, kiss you—I spend all fucking day in this house with him, and I just…needed to feel some human contact, okay? You don’t know what its like being in this house all day and watching him die slowly and there’s nothing—NOTHING—I can do or say to make any of it better or…easier…there are days…all he does is sleep. I have no one to even talk to!”

 

Now you feel like shit twice over. 

 

“And….I know its fucking selfish of me to even think about what I’m going through when he’s the one who’s dying, but….” Jensen stops talking now, tears in his eyes.

 

 

 

 

You awaken in the middle of the night to the sound of Wentworth retching. It startles you and you sit up, trying to get your bearings and remembering where you are.

 

You get up and walk out of the guest room, heading down the hallway to the master bedroom, pausing in the doorway and just watching with a heavy heart.

 

Wentworth Miller is hunched over a bucket on the bed; dry heaving into it again and again. Jensen sits beside him, rubbing his back and speaking soothingly, “Its okay….it’s okay, baby…” he says over and over again.

 

When at last, the heaving passes, Went collapses back on to the bed, and Jensen takes the bucket to the bathroom.

 

He returns moments later with a glass and some mouth wash, “Here, baby…” he says softly and its all Wentworth can do to sit up, take the wash, rinse his mouth, spit into the empty cup.

 

“Thankyou,” Went rasps, and his voice sounds unrecognisable.

 

In the moonlight, you can see just how emaciated he is now; the bones in his back protrude in hideous fashion.

 

The whole scene makes you sick and you want to look away but find that you cannot.

 

Jensen leans down and kisses Wentworth’s forehead gently, “What can I get you?”

 

“Morphine. Please.” Went rasps, and Jensen reaches over to the nightstand and takes out a small tube.

 

“Open up, baby.” He whispers and Wentworth opens his mouth. Jensen aims the small tube and squirts liquid morphine into his mouth, reaches out to close Went’s mouth and massages his throat to help him swallow, “That’s it, baby. Better now?”

 

Went’s head droops as the drug takes effect and Jensen lowers him gently back onto the pillows.

 

Then, your heart breaks even further. Because as Wentworth sleep, Jensen hold his near-lifeless hand in his and cries, “I’m so sorry…I tried, Went, baby…I tried to forget him. Tried to love you…I never meant to hurt you, baby. You didn’t deserve that…and you don’t deserve this…please forgive me…please…please…please..”

 

***

The next morning dawns all too soon and you drag yourself out of bed and down the stairs to find Jensen reading the paper at the kitchen table.

 

“Will he…get out of bed?” you ask, wondering how the days are spent when you are basically waiting for someone to die.

 

Jensen shrugs, “He’ll try. He always tries, but some days he can’t. We’ll have to wait and see. The nurse will be here at eleven. He’ll sleep till then.”

 

“I saw you with him—last night. When he was throwing up,” you blurt out without really meaning to. The you add, “You were wonderful with him, Jen.”

 

Jensen laughs bitterly, “Oh, yeah—I’m a regular Mother Teresa!”

 

“You could have walked out on him—when he got sick.” You offer lamely.

 

“If I had done that,” Jensen replies evenly, “I would hate myself even more than I already do.”

 

And it is right then, in that instant, that you know it will never work out between Jensen and you. Its not for lack oft trying and it is not for lack of love—but there is too much bad blood in the mix now. Neither of you will ever be able to make any of it right again—and Wentworth Miller will haunt every attempt that you make.

 

You just look away and Jensen continues to read the paper.

 

You leave that afternoon when Wentworth’s family arrives, feeling uncomfortable in their presence. You would have stayed if Jensen had asked you to—but thankfully, he did not. He just gave you a far away gaze and nodded, “Yeah, you go home. I’ll be okay here…I’ll call you when…you know…”

 

“Yeah,” you reply, “Call me if you need anything—any time of the day or night, you hear?”

 

The two of you embrace and Jensen goes slack against your much larger frame. He is so exhausted. You hope—for everyone’s sake—that all of this ends soon.

 

Before you leave, you go to visit Wentworth a final time.

 

You had been avoiding the bedroom as much as possible. The room had the very smell of death to it. But when you enter, it looks surprisingly cheery. The windows are open and a cool breeze blows through the large room.

 

Went is sitting up in bed and though he looks awful, your mind’s eye tries to recall him as he once was—gorgeous, young, eyes that sparkled with life. You try to hang on to that image as you talk, not the image of what he has become, but of what he once was.

 

Wentworth gives you a smile as you sit nervously beside the bed, tapping one foot and bouncing unconsciously on the chair, your eyes looking everywhere but into the eyes of the dying man before you.

 

“You really are adorable, you know,” he says suddenly.

 

“What?” you ask dumbfounded.

 

“You’re adorable. I asked Jensen once why he loved you so much…he said it was because you were adorable…I didn’t see it then. I do now.”

 

You just stare at the bed sheets, because what can you say to that? You wonder when Wentworth asked Jensen that—under what circumstances? Were they fighting about you? Were they making love at the time? Was it before or after Wentworth discovered that Jensen was sleeping with you behind his back? 

 

These thoughts, you know, could drive you crazy if you let them. Being the other man, you decided long ago, was not the most enviable of positions…. still, it was probably better then being the one who got cheated on.

 

“Went, I’m sorry,” you begin, and Went tries to get you to stop, but you wave him off because you want to say this—you need to say this, “What we did to you…it was wrong. I’m truly sorry. I don’t know why I…why we…didn’t stop. We should have. We both should have respected you more then we did. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just….happened. We just loved each other…and we couldn’t stop. I AM sorry.”

 

You really hope that he knows how sincere you are being. You feel like the biggest jerk in the world and you want him to know it.

 

Wentworth looks at you and seems to get it. He nods dully, “Its okay—really, it is. I accepted it all long ago.”

 

You shake your head, tears in your eyes, “You really shouldn’t have.” You reply.

 

And then you lie and tell Wentworth what he wants to hear—what he needs to hear to die in peace: that you won’t ever leave Jensen and that you will stay with him forever—even as you say the words, you can hear how hollow your promise is-- but it seems to satisfy Wentworth, who merely smiles and closes his eyes as if he is now content.

 

You wait for him to say something more and when he doesn’t, you get up and stumble from the room and back downstairs to Jensen, who has just answered the door and is letting in Bill Fichtner.

 

Jensen has told you how emotionally exhausting it has been—receiving guests endlessly for days now, all coming to say goodbye, even as they try to keep up a fake veneer of false cheerfulness and hope.

 

To his credit, Bill doesn’t bother with the false hope or the fake cheerfulness.

 

Bill looks like a train has hit him.

 

“How is he?” he asks you as you slowly descend the stairs, in a daze. You have the very strong desire to shower, to wash the stench of death from your body. It takes you a minute before you even realise that someone is speaking to you, and then you focus your eyes on Fichtner’s looming presence before you.

 

His hair is askew and he looks pale and drawn, as you all do. His blue eyes—man, they are blue! —are red rimmed and puffy, and he looks nervous in the way that people who are about to face death by proxy often look. It is the way you look. 

 

You blink dumbly at the man and force him to repeat his question before you can find words to answer him, “He’s….it’s not good, Bill. I mean, you should…prepare yourself.”

 

You watch as Wentworth’s old friend psyches himself up, mentally preparing himself for what he is about to see, before climbing the stairs and disappearing into the bedroom at the top o the stairway.

 

You turn to Jensen, who has been watching Bill as well.

 

“He’s a good person,” Jensen says, echoing something Wentworth had said about Fichtner a few years prior, “He’s always been there for Went…been there for him when I wasn’t. I think…I know Went told him about you and me. He would…stay with Bill—at his home—when we were…fighting….”

 

It makes you sick to think of the two of them fighting—fighting over you.

 

As if reading your mind, Jensen gives you a reassuring smile, “We didn’t fight about you—not directly. We fought about a million other things…he’d go and stay with Bill and his family for a few days. But he always came back. We’d make up and try again. Then we’d start fighting about something else…Bill must know even more about Went and me then you do.”

 

“Has he…said anything?”

 

Jensen merely shakes his head, “Nah. He’s too much of a gentleman for that. I used to tease Went, ‘Are you SURE Bill wasn’t born in the south? He’s too much of a gentleman to be a New Yorker…’”

 

You both laugh listlessly at the joke and sit in silence, lost in your own thoughts, regret hanging heavy in an air filled with damnation.

 

When Bill emerges from the bedroom about an hour or so later, he looks worse then when he went in. It’s obvious that he has been crying and he walks down the stairs like someone who has just been punched in the stomach.

 

Jensen stands and goes to him and they talk quietly for a few moments. Wentworth has given Bill something—it looks like a medallion of some sort on a chain—and Bill shows it to Jensen, before slipping it into his pocket.

 

You can’t hear much of what they say to one another, but the jist of it is something like, “I’ll be praying for you both.”

 

Bill nods at you as he leaves and you get the feeling that he knows he will never see his friend alive again.

 

As he leaves, Went’s parents arrive and you make yourself scarce.

 

You go home to await the inevitable news.

 

Wentworth Miller dies in Jensen Ackles arms two days later.


	3. Chapter 3

You were not there when Miller died, but Jen told you everything. 

 

It was peaceful, quiet. There was no pain at the end—Went just went to sleep and stopped breathing.

 

He weighed barely one hundred pounds when he died and Jensen told you that holding him was like holding a pile of bones. His breathing had gone raspy and laboured and what little light had been left in those brilliant eyes left them as he stared up at Jensen and said softly his last words, “Be happy, Jen. I’ll miss you. I’ll see you again….”

 

It was an odd thing to say because Miller had always been an atheist. It was one of the many bones of contention in his relationship with Jensen—Jen, the believer and Went the nonbeliever—so to say that on his death bed was strange, to say the least. 

 

You chalk it up to the old saying, “There are no atheists in fox holes”

 

Jensen tells you that he believes that Wentworth said it for his benefit, to give Jensen some hope and comfort—that too is entirely plausible, considering the man’s considerable love for Jen…still, its an odd thing to say, for an atheist. 

 

You don’t want to go to the funeral. You don’t feel like you belong there—but Jensen is so distraught and so weak that you feel obliged to attend, if only to help hold him up.

 

Bill Fichtner is there; wearing the medallion that Wentworth had given him on his deathbed. He tells you it’s a class medal from Princeton that Went had had made up into a necklace. It’s truly beautiful, with an intricate design of the school’s motto and shield on the front. Its solid silver.

 

Fichtner gives a eulogy that leaves not a dry eye in the place, calling Wentworth one of the most selfless souls he had ever met and you want to just vomit, because, yeah, Bill’s right….

 

Dom Purcell is there. The man has always terrified you. He looks like a thug and he never seemed particularly friendly. Jen told you that when he came to visit Wentworth when he was slowly dying at home, the two men spent hours and hours together in the bedroom, talking and that Dom was actually very tender and sweet with Went, helping him eat, making sure that Went took his painkillers, taking Went’s mind off of his illness by bringing dvds for the two of them to watch. Dom had been wonderful during those last few weeks, Jen had told you—a God send who took some of the pressure off of Jensen by caring for Went so that Jensen could get some rest…but you just can’t picture these scenes in your head. The man looks like he could snap you and Jensen in half using just his little finger and his thumb…you can’t imagine that he and Wentworth would have had much in common.

 

When he sees you, his eyes narrow and he leans over, whispering something in Robert Knepper’s ear, before stalking towards you, looking very menacing indeed.

 

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” he snarls, getting into your personal.

 

“I…I…” you stutter, “I’m here for…for Jen…”

 

Dom leans close to you and you just know that if you weren’t at a fucking funeral, Purcell would be punching you in the face right about now. In lieu of that, he points a finger into your chest accusingly, “Wentworth was my friend. You wrecked his marriage. You don’t belong here, you fuck!”

 

You could not agree more. You just stare at the ground, “I’m sorry…” you mutter, “Jensen asked me to come. I didn’t…want to come.”

 

Dom just glares at you. Man, if looks could kill….

 

“Yeah? Well Jensen’s a little shithead too. You both ought be ashamed of yourselves!”

 

Then he stomps off before you have a chance to reply, “We are.”

 

Jensen looks over at you from across the chapel and gives you a raised eyebrow, obviously wondering what Purcell has said. You just shake your head at him, believe me, you think, you don’t want to know….

 

Jensen looks like he’s about to fall over. He didn’t want this—Wentworth didn’t want this, either. He had wanted a small, private funeral with just family and a few close friends, not this huge affair with half of Hollywood milling around…but Jen had never been very good at saying no, and when Wentworth’s agent had called and said that he wanted to have a public funeral, well…Jensen was too exhausted and devastated to say no.

 

He looks like he regrets it now though. The whole event has an air of tackiness to it that you both know Wentworth would have hated. His family doesn’t look happy, either…but then, they never were happy—with any of it. They had wanted Went to be a lawyer…Jen told you that the first thing Wentworth’s father had ever said to him was, “Did you know that in seventeen languages the word for ‘actor’ and ‘whore’ are the same?”

 

And, apparently, their relationship had gone downhill from there.

 

He’s sitting in the front row of the chapel, looking bemused. He’s also giving Jensen dirty looks. 

 

This is a nightmare.

 

***

 

It only gets worse at the Ackles-Miller home later that day. 

 

Scores of people, most of whom you are meeting for the first time, turn up after the funeral at the house and proceed to eat, drink and sit around talking about how great Miller was. You really have absolutely nothing to contribute to this particular conversation, so you make yourself scarce and go to the kitchen, helping the caterer make fresh sandwiches. She assures you that she doesn’t need your help, but you beg her to let you stay and help because…yeah, making sandwiches and hiding in the kitchen is better then sitting in the living room, waiting for someone else to come up to you and tell you what an asshole you are for fucking Jensen.

 

And this goes on for days—people coming and going and paying their respects and NONE of them want to even look at you. None of them like you. It’s as if the entire town knows that you and Jensen screwed behind Miller’s back, and they all hate you for it.

 

 

A month has gone by. You are practically living at Jensen’s house, going home only to get clothes. Even the dogs move in.

 

But as much as you are with Jensen, you are not truly ‘with’ him—not in any real sense. Jensen might be in the same room, but he’s a million miles away. You may sleep in the same bed, but sex is well and truly a distant memory.

 

It’s crazy. It’s not like you and Jensen haven’t done it before. Its not like you haven’t done it recently. You last made love only two months ago…and yet, here you both are, acting like shy teenagers on a date, wondering if tonight is the night that you’ll go ‘all the way’.

 

You’ll be damned if you are going to make the first move. Jensen just lost his husband, and—yeah—its not like they were desperately in love anymore or anything like that, but it’s still not your place. You feel like the first move HAS to come from Jensen, because he is the one who has suffered the loss, and he is the one who must decide when its time to move forward.

 

You feel like a jumbo jet in a holding pattern, just waiting for the next phase of your life to begin, and not knowing when it will. You really, really want this next part of your life to include Jensen, but…you just don’t know. So much has happened. It seems like the two of you are cursed.

 

You wonder sometimes, more than a little bit bitterly, if Miller is sitting up there in Heaven, laughing at you both. You had never really fully believed his whole selfless ‘I-understand-that-you-and-Jensen-love-each-other’ shit that he had laid on you while he was dying. As much as you truly felt sorry for the man, and as much as you were sincerely sorry for hurting him with Jensen, you had never liked Wentworth Miller, and you were not going to pretend that you did now that he was dead. Even you couldn’t lie to yourself that much. The man had been a bit of a prig, to be honest—and to use a term he would have used. He thought he was smarter then everyone else, thought himself a much better actor then he truly was, and generally just got up your nose. You wonder now if he could somehow foresee all the trouble you and Jensen would have after he died. You wonder if, maybe, he knew it would be impossible for the two of you to navigate any kind of relationship when it was so poisoned by his untimely death. You wonder if that was the whole reason why he made you promise him that you would stay with Jen—not because he was being the bigger man; not because he was being kind and forgiving, not even because he cared about Jensen—but because he hated you and maybe even Jensen too, and he knew that making you promise him, on his death bed, that you and Jensen would stay together, he would doom you both to exactly this—months of torture and self-recrimination; months—perhaps even years—of life in a holding pattern of pain and regret and unfulfilled love.

 

You wouldn’t put it past him. The guy had always been too smart for his own good. The thought that he might have done this just to get back at you was far-fetched—you knew that much—but the idea of it being a possibility ate away at you, making you hate the guy all over again, then you would recall how much he suffered in his final months and weeks of life, and how he had died knowing his husband was in love with another man, and how he had died when he was only forty-three years old—and then you berate yourself for being so small, so bitter, and so full of coldness for a man who had deserved better. It was an endless, vicious cycle that you were caught up in.

 

Jensen, meanwhile, was lost in his own cycle of regret and self-hatred, his own vicious cycle that he could not break out of. He cries a lot. He doesn’t talk to you, not really. He just sits alone and cries. You give me a great deal of space—mostly because you don’t know what to say to make of it better.

 

***

 

It’s been six weeks since Went died, and Jensen seems less morose each day. He’s still prone to crying jags and likes to spend a great deal of time alone, but he actually beings to smile again, and when you rent “The Blues Brothers” one night, he actually laughs out loud, and you realise that its been…well, ages since you heard that wonderful sound.

 

He seems to catch himself laughing and stops, and the two of you eye one another uncertainly.

 

Then Jensen stands slowly and reaches out to you, taking you by the hand silently and pulling you to your feet. You stare at one another for a long moment, and then, with a soft look in his eyes, Jensen leads you up the stairs and to the bedroom, the movie is forgotten.

 

You really, really don’t want to rush this, but it’s been so fucking long and you want Jen so badly, it’s palpable.

 

The two of you strip and attack one another’s mouths, tonguing exploring, whimpers falling from both of your lips.

 

Jensen clings to you, runs his hands from your broad shoulders down your chest to your stomach admiringly, “JayJayJay…” he gasps, leaning down to kiss the skin he has just caressed.

 

You roll your eyes back and throw your head to the ceiling, moaning quietly at the renewed contact. Its just so fucking good you can’t believe that you have gone this long without it.

 

Then Jen is on his knees and taking your hard cock into his mouth and you can’t think at all, can’t even move. You just stand there, in the middle of the bedroom, your knees nearly buckling and your whole body shaking as Jensen’s hot mouth brings you instantly to the edge. Its too much and not enough all at once, and you whine in desperation, cradling his head in your large hands and looking down at the sight of your turgid sex disappearing into that lush, sinful mouth, “Jen…” you groan and nearly come from the sight alone.

 

As much as you adore what he’s doing, you need more. You need to be inside of him again. You pull him off you with a reluctant groan, and look down on him, eyes blazing, “I wanna fuck you….please…please let me fuck you…”

 

Jensen smiles slightly and nods, standing going to the bed instantly, kneeling on all fours and presenting himself to you for the taking. It’s hot…but…you wanted to make love fact-to-face, especially since it’s been so long. You kiss his shoulder and nuzzle against his neck, “Turn over, Jen,” you ask, “Wanna see you,” you murmur softly, kissing his neck.

 

Instead of turning over, Jen hesitates. Then he whispers hoarsely, “Nah…this way, Jay…do it this way.”

 

In that moment, you freeze because you realise, even through a haze of lust and desire, what exactly is happening here. Jen doesn’t want that kind of intimacy with you—not tonight and maybe not ever again. He wants to fuck, but not make love. He wants to have sex, but doesn’t want to look you in the eye. It hurts you far more than you want to admit, and you stand behind him, frozen and hurt, for an indeterminate amount of time, lost in your torturous thoughts, until Jensen presses back against you sensuously and purrs like a cat, “Jay…baby, come on…” he entreats—and you are so lonely and so desperate for him that you give in. 

 

You don’t want to—you want to tell him no, that you don’t this, not this way…that if he can’t be with you entirely then he can’t be with you at all. But then you remind yourself that Jensen has never really been with you entirely. He has always held back, pulled away. He always slept with you, but never gave you himself completely—why should tonight be any different, you think bitterly as you line yourself up with his entrance, slick yourself with saliva and sweat and push inside him for the first time in months.

 

And God…it’s so blindingly good. He’s tight and hot and pushing back to meet every one of your thrusts. Your hips snap, uncontrolled and nearly violent against his perfect ass and you hear his breathless moans and soft cries as he leans forward, burying his head against the pillow and letting you drive deeper and deeper into his ass. 

 

You reach out and stroke his back, soaked in sweat. You feel drunk with lust, and your hips begin to stutter as orgasm approaches. 

 

But you’re angry too—angry that Jensen won’t look at you, won’t let you look into his eyes. Wentworth is still here, dead though he may be. Its almost as if he is here in the bed with both of you…and the thought makes you very angry indeed.

 

You reach out and grab Jensen’s right shoulder, pulling him back hard and fast onto your cock, and forcing his face up and out of the pillow as you do it. You hear his cry of discomfort at the change of angle—and the roughness of your thrust—but you don’t care. Using your other hand to grab his left hip, you own him completely, arching up and over him from behind, mating with him as a beast takes another. You use your hands and superior strength to force him back onto your cock, piercing him completely and deeply, not caring if you are hurting him. 

 

Maybe you want to hurt him.

 

Again and again, you pull him back against your hard sex and shove deeply inside until you can clearly hear him screaming in pain, and begging you to stop.

 

“Jay! NO! Jay…stop! Please, Jay! Stop…God,…hurts, Jay…please stop…”

 

You bite your lip and continue the onslaught, not slowing at all, maybe even speeding up. Your fingernails pierce his skin at the shoulder and hip, drawing some blood and he yelps in shock. You slam into him a final time, buried to the hilt, and then you come. 

 

Your whole body spasms and trembles uncontrollably as you lose control of your body, spilling hot and wet inside Jensen’s abused hole. The sounds spilling from your mouth don’t even sound human. You grunt and howl and come and come and come. Spurt after endless spurt of hot semen pours from your cock and into Jensen’s asshole until it begins to leak back out again and drip down his legs, along with blood, no doubt.

 

Your whole body is rigid with the assault of release. And then it is over, and you find yourself gasping for breath and pulling out of Jensen, staggering backwards on your feet, dazed and confused. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror across the room and don’t recognise the man staring back at you. Then you look down in the mirror and see that your cock is covered in blood. Instinctively, you reach for it and then look away from the mirror and down at yourself, your hand now covered in Jensen’s blood.

 

Did you really just DO that? Did you just rape your lover? Did you just….fuck….

 

Without a word, you stumble to the bathroom off the bedroom and sink to your knees in front of the toilet, emptying the contents of your stomach in a series of vicious gags that leave your eyes watering.

 

When you emerge an eternity later, Jensen is laying on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Then he turns his piercing gaze on you, “What the hell was that?” he hisses.

 

You have no answers—or, at least, the answers you have are not ones that you wish to examine or say aloud—so you simply shake your head, “I don’t know.”

 

Jensen swallows audibly and sits up, “I think you should leave.” He says simply.

 

You don’t know if he means that he wants you to leave for the night—or forever. You get the feelings he isn’t sure, either.

 

“I’m sorry, Jen. I…”

 

“Just GO!” he shouts, causing you to jump at the sound of his voice raised in such anger, such betrayal. He has every right to hate you—you couldn’t blame him for wanting you to leave.

 

You slowly turn and walk out of the house.

 

TBC...


End file.
